


A Night of Encounters

by Kurekai



Category: Fishbones (novel)
Genre: Canon Compliant, College, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1729007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurekai/pseuds/Kurekai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ferris can feel it, a sixth sense nestled at the stem of his brain, telling him Demos is somewhere doing something irresponsible and probably illegal."</p>
<p>Or that time Ferris Levinstien goes to a party, loses his best friend, gets punched in the face, and doesn’t get nearly enough sleep.<br/>Takes place after the conclusion of the first Fishbones novel</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a coat rack, an ottoman, a slice of truth, and the current problem revealed

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t consider myself a strong writer. I think I've written about 5 fics in my whole life, all very short and very silly. 
> 
> This story is far too long and required 2 windows of chrome with about 9 tabs each open on various Yale websites.  
> I still don’t know much about the American college system, parties and fist fights, so excuse clichés when you encounter them.
> 
> Again, many thanks to Jisuk, whose novel and enthusiasm continue to inspire me.
> 
> this work is not beta'd and I know there a lots of mistakes I haven't picked up. Please ignore them.
> 
> Title comes from the Two Door Cinema Club song Cigarettes In The Theatre

Morals do not occur to Demos Giorgetti in much the same way that the act of falling does not occurs to birds. 

Body slotted between the soft embrace of a hung pea coat and a cashmere scarf, Ferris’ thought isn’t exactly sparked by anything in particular, but is more an observation anyone with a keen eye for psychoanalysis would accumulate about Demos after spending an extended period of time with him. 

A few weeks would suffice, he supposes, similar to the time Ferris’ roommates and hesitant I’ve-only-spoken-to-you-once-so-we’re-not-exactly-friends friends have been exposed to the more or less detrimental effects of a young, drunk and charmingly anarchic Demos Giorgetti. 

It is just enough time to start to gauge the frightening lack of morality that should exist somewhere inside any normal young adult, but for whatever reason has not been properly installed into Demos, resulting in an a subtle, yet fundamental design flaw that does not go entirely unnoticed by anyone sober, coherent or within earshot. 

Ferris has known Demos much longer than that, the realisation dawning sooner, as well as the scary understanding that Demos’ morality, or lack thereof, is not so much a shocking surprise but rather a strangely comforting relief. Even after three years apart, Demos is still relatively the same person he remembers him to be. 

That is, a dangerous, lawless and recklessly stupid piece of shit. 

__

> _A slice of truth: Whatever you think a party is, the things you do, the fun you have, it has nothing to do with and will probably never resemble what a drunk Demos Giorgetti thinks a party is._

He’s gone. Disappeared. His state of existence suspended somewhere between ‘possibly in the house’ or ‘maybe on campus’ and ‘probably in a holding cell’ for the past half hour. For eight minutes of that half hour Ferris has been trapped between the coat rack and about four slow moving, post-Jack Daniels sophomores in the large and partially destroyed lounge room of a Pierson dorm. 

In party minutes, that’s enough time to develop an acute sense of regret, similar to the kind one would develop after realising they should have predicted this chain of events sooner based on past knowledge of Demos and his ability to rationally make decisions. 

Ferris had misplaced him at two am in what he would like to consider a total and freak accident of misplaced accountability. One second he was there, the next he was not, and like claiming insurance Ferris was unsure of whose fault that entirely was. 

He’s tried calling him, but the noise stuffed too tightly into the cramped common room was too deafening to hear over. He’d tracked six laps of the floor packed wall to wall with gyrating adolescents, eyes unable to spot any sign of his missing friend. 

Now disillusioned, entirely to blame, and with the knowledge of something important, Ferris accepts his fate in the form of taking up lodging with an assortment of overcoats and jackets in the rack by the front door. 

__

> _The knowledge of something important: Demos is about to do something incredibly stupid._

Ferris groans noisily. The sophomore standing nearest to him notices his presence with suspicion, looking at him with about as much concern someone with a killer hangover can muster. 

“Are you alright?” she asks. 

“I’m absolutely fine” Ferris drawls. 

“… What are you doing?” 

He turns his head into a sleeve. “Looking for my friend” 

“…In a coat rack?” Ferris can’t see it but he can feel her condescending gaze piecing the back of his head. 

His reply is muffled but the polyester. “m’never said I was having much luck” 

She waits a beat, still deciding whether she wants to keep talking or sit down. Ferris prays for the latter. 

“You’re Ferris Levinstien, right?” 

You can’t win everything. “Yes” 

“The one with the weird friends?” 

“I’m not sure how many Ferris Levinstien’s you think you know, but that one does sound like me” 

She braces her arm on the wall, looking as thoroughly done with this conversation as Ferris feels. “Where are they?” she asks, looking around? 

“No idea. But one of them is definitely not in this coat rack” 

Ferris is becoming known for his strange associations, a label he’s not quite sure he’s comfortable with. Seamus, who has attended the odd party with him in the past, already has a kind of cult following that buzzes around him every time he comes to visit, formed after one very long, very loud drama after party that Ferris doesn’t remember much of at all. 

Seamus isn’t what Ferris would describe as ‘good’ at parties, but he is reliable. If Seamus where here he would have found Demos by now, sobered up enough to make a coherent phone call to tell Ferris he’s fine everything is fine jeez would you calm down already, and drag him back to his dorm room with enough time to spare for a post-midnight 24hour convenience store pit stop. 

But Seamus isn’t here, Seamus has enough morals left not washed away by years of alcoholism to know that visiting Ferris at Yale midway through exam week is not only inconvenient but downright impolite. Seamus also knows that then proceeding to drag Ferris to a total of three ‘gatherings’, two of which were hosted by students he had never even laid eyes on before watching them do intoxicated poetry readings in the late ours of twilight, is highly irresponsible and does not reflect well on Ferris’ grades and reputation as the campus Grinch. 

But Ferris reasons that Demos is not the kind of person to be easily deterred by things as trivial as exam schedules, his erratic visits to Yale at odd times of the semester quickly becoming a habit Ferris and his roommates had become accustomed to too quickly for his own liking. 

It had started the day at the church early this spring, when they had promised to pick up from where they’d left off, to rebuild three years of lost friendship from nothing but old memories and a burning desire for reconciliation. Ferris knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he had been more excited than he’d been in a very long time when he had given Demos permission to come visit him whenever he wanted. 

But showing up completely unannounced at the door of Ferris’ dormitory with a bottle of red wine and an overnight bag was not at all what he meant. Since that first incident, Demos has been sleeping on the floor, eating at the Timothy Dwight dining hall in front of everyone Ferris knows, and sitting in at lectures doodling stick figures and tiny landscapes all over Ferris’ spare notebooks at least once every three or four weeks. 

It’s nice, sometimes awkward, but definitely preferable to the lonely three years Ferris spent without Demos at his side. 

This is the fifth visit now, and it’s at five and a half parties later and with a French exam in less than nine hours that Ferris suddenly realises the downsides of having his best friend reunited with him, the felty embrace of the coatrack paling in comparison to the gut-emptying fear of having a half drunk Demos run rampant and unsupervised around an Ivy League College. 

Ferris can feel it, a sixth sense nestled at the stem of his brain, telling him Demos is somewhere doing something irresponsible and probably illegal. 

__

> _What a drunk Demos Giorgetti thinks a party is: It’s not one until a double majority of the addends are intoxicated and the chances of somebody dying and/or being incarcerated rise to above 45%._

Ferris needs to find him. The party is dying and with it are his chances of salvaging what is left of Demos after 30 minutes of unsupervised anarchy. 

“I need to go” He informs the girl. 

She doesn’t respond, just nods and waves as he nudges past her and propels himself from the arms of discarded jackets and scarves and back into the waning remnants of what was most likely a pretty good time. 

Ferris had avoided the alcohol for most of it, figuring Crown Royal and 4 th year French exam papers don’t work so well together, and instead busied himself with watching over Demos like a manic single mother does with a twelve year old child. 

Obviously he has failed as a parent, as cruising through the trashed remains of what Ferris thinks might have been the common room five hours ago turns up no signs of his missing friend. Nor do any of the other rooms he peruses. 

The music has been steadily dying down from floor shaking to muffled background noise for quite some time now, and most of the students here for the fun have either cleared out or passed out, gathering in the corners of rooms like ceramic collections, not generally doing much, mostly just trying to stay upright. Occasional barked laughter from upstairs breaks the dank settling atmosphere, but for the most part two am onwards marks the end of The Party and the start of Impending Regret. 

Ferris internally crosses off the dorm as a potential candidate of Demos’ whereabouts, surprised it took him this long to realise that no, of course he’s not here, why on earth would a drunk Demos hang around in the carcass of a lifeless party when he could plot an act of accidental terrorism somewhere else. 

Whisking past a group sleeping on a couch, Ferris marches his way back towards the front door, but doesn’t make it very far before Amy, propped up on a doorframe and staring off into space, notices him and announces his presence to everyone in the surrounding vicinity. 

“Hey, Ferris! Where’re you going?” 

He looks at her. She’s small, about 22% sober and afraid of house spiders. Ferris is tall, about 99% sober and afraid of her. 

“I’m looking for Demos” He tries to sound calm but he knows his face looks like a preschool teachers would on the day they’re taught about all the things that could go wrong on a class exclusion. 

She takes a swing from a bottle moving too fast for Ferris to recognize. “He’s not with you?” 

“Give me a second Amy, I’ll just check” He dramatically gestures with both hands to the extensive and obviously absent-of-Demos space surrounding him. “Oh, would you look at that” 

Her face screws up like unfolded sheets. “Have you checked upstairs?” 

“No, I’ve just been pacing around for a bit of light exercise” 

She ignores him, swinging her body around the doorframe so she’s facing the room inside “Hey! Have any of you shitfaces seen Demos?” 

The replies she receives in return from the bodies littered amongst the furniture range from simi-conscious moans to lethargically aggressive denials of the shitfaced comment, none of which are particularly helpful to Ferris. 

Amy shrugs and gives him a look of apology. At least he thinks it is, the slant of her mouth could mean anything between “I’m sorry, bro” and “I’m a queen and my realm is this room full of winos” 

He shrugs in reply and turns to leave, but a detached groan from the back couch stops his retreat. 

She drones “Hey wait, you mean that new guy right? The toothpick with the fancy hair?” 

Ferris doesn’t know who this girl is or how she knows Demos, but something about that description is hauntingly accurate and worthy of some kind of praise. He strides back into the room. 

“Do you know where he is?” His attempts to mask his voice from sounding too desperate. 

The girl who spoke looks like she just stepped out of a wind tunnel, boots undone, dress hitched high, hair so wild ferrel animals are probably taking notes. Her body is propped unceremoniously against the edge of an ottoman, supported up by a single elbow and a whole lot of hope. 

“Yeah maybe? I thought I saw a bunch of guys leave like an hour ago. He might be with them...” 

Ferris starts buttoning up his coat. “Any idea where they went?” 

The girl squeezes the bridge of her nose with equal amounts intensity as she does with frustration. “Ugh look, I don’t know, probably to the Silliman courtyard or something?” she sighs. 

Ferris doesn’t wait around to see the girl’s head drop lazily off her supporting hand and forward onto the couch, already striding towards the door. 

As he passes Amy she downs the rest of her drink. “Why are you so desperate about finding your boyfriend anyway?” 

_‘Ah, there it is’_ Ferris thinks. 

Boyfriend insinuations happen at an average of at least once on every good day and too many on every bad. The last quip was by Pete over lunch yesterday, the first quip was by Hiro two hours after Demos had caught the bus back to Southport six weeks ago. 

“You sure you’re not together?” he’d asked in a tone so offended that Ferris almost felt sorry that his best roommate thought he was keeping his repressed, secret and completely non-existent love life from him. He’d told his yes. He’d told him that they were only friends. Ferris thought that was all there was too it. 

It wasn’t apparently, and the comments continued to whittle away at him long after Demos had left. They were annoying in the quietest of ways, digging under his skin and festering away for hours without a cure. And once Ferris starting thinking about them, he couldn’t stop. 

__

> _The currently problem: What would it be like to be Demos Giorgetti’s boyfriend?_

It was a betrayal at his fundamental core, and it burned at Ferris’ insides like dry ice, scorched his face in hot shame. He decided to develop an intolerance. 

“Not my boyfriend,” Ferris quickly retorts as he strides towards the door, Amy hot on his heels. “And because he’s a danger to himself and others” 

“Come on, it’s not like he’s going to kill anyone?” Amy laughs, smirk threatening to split her face. 

“If only you knew” Ferris mutters. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing” He thanks Amy by giving her a light pat on the shoulder, worried anything stronger would send her crashing to the floor, and leaves her in the doorframe as he marches out into the clammy night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here endeth the first lesson
> 
> if you're thinking this reads like the Book Thief you're absolutely right  
> writing style plagiarism 101
> 
> bored yet?  
> don't worry you soon will be


	2. a courtyard, an anti-climactic reveal, the peanut gallery, and school yard bullying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the encounters continue

__

> _An observation about the weather: Late spring evenings are infinitely colder than what you remember them being after spending six hours in a house, over half an hour looking for your lost best friend and eight minutes standing in a coat rack._

Ferris stuffs his fits into the pockets of his coat as he storms towards Silliman. For whatever reason people still seem to be loitering about the grounds, as if they’ve forgotten its almost three am and the thought of returning to their dorms to sleep is so horrifying they’ve simply erased it from their minds. 

Ferris recognises most of them from the party, a lot of them either still drunk, coming down, or too tired and embarrassed to pick themselves up off the pavement and instead just crash near the gardens or on the benches. 

The sound of hushed conversation fills the air, like in a dentist’s waiting room or what Ferris’s house used to sound like back when Gino Giorgetti visited his father and they would both lock themselves in his office. It’s a nice sound, but its memory had been soured by loneliness Ferris wished didn’t make him seem so self-pitying over the years. 

Remembering things about his dad, about the Giorgetti’s, and the life he’d chosen to move on from yet somehow always come back to, like snakes and ladders or quadratic functions, had caused him misery for three long and predictable years. A kind of self-inflicted chronic pain. 

But since seeing Demos again, holding him in his arms in the middle of Sunday church, his friends’ breath hot on his ear and boney hands gripping his back with conviction so strong the holy building itself had nothing on him, it’s been getting easier. 

Being together again is getting easier. The hush of the three am Old campus doesn’t sting anymore. 

__

> _An observation about Demos Giorgetti: He means a lot more to you than the category of ‘best friend’ allows for._

It doesn’t take long too for Ferris to trek across Cross campus and towards the Silliman courtyard. It is as illuminated as one would think a quad would be at an ungodly hour of night, a few lamps staining the lawns yellow as student shaped silhouettes flit around like moths with the finesse of several hours of heavy drinking. 

Some are sitting, some are standing and Ferris recognises a few of the shapes in the distance. Hiro is there, along with a couple of people he knows from is French unit, all wearing the same face of apathetic remorse Ferris knows he’s wearing too. He really should be studying. 

He sees him too, of course, he’s just too irritated to acknowledge it straight away. 

About twenty feet to the right from the largest group of kids, Demos Giorgetti lies on his back gripping a tuft of grass in one hand and a Smirnoff Black in the other, definitely more conscious than a select few basking in the glow of the lamplight. 

He’s laughing at something a person nearby said, not the picture of drunken mayhem Ferris was preparing himself to deal with. There are no bodies, no fires, not a single police siren to be heard. For the hour Demos has been missing it seems no anarchy has transpired at all. 

Disappointed with himself, Ferris trudges over. He skirts around the edge of the gaggle, coming to a stop beside Demos in much the same way a man would hunch over a grave. Only in this version the grave opens its eyes, stares up at Ferris with a mix of delight, distress and confusion, and says “It’s about time you showed up” 

Ferris would roll his eyes if he didn’t suddenly feel so old. 

“This is anti-climactic” he drawls. 

“What?” 

Ferris thinks this conversation probably looks really stupid to the people awake and nearby enough to watch it unfold. A very tall man, hands shoved in pockets, talking over a slightly smaller man, lying flat on his back. 

Ferris bristles in the chill, pumping as much stern disapproval he can into his voice, “I’ve been looking for you for forty-five minutes worrying my ass off that you’ve killed someone” 

Demos sloppily gestures something that was perhaps meant to be a point, but doesn’t quite make it due to a fist full of Smirnoff and a severe drop in fine motor control. 

“You don’t know I haven’t done that yet” 

Ferris voice comes out as irritated as intends, “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” 

His friend lifts the bottle in reply, sloshing its contents around with an erratic wrist shake. 

Ferris shoots him a glare, snatching the bottle from his hand. “Okay, how long have you _been_ here?” 

Demos drops his hands to either side of his head, already thoroughly exasperated with Ferris only thirty seconds into the conversation. “‘Here’ as in the courtyard or ‘here’ as in on the floor?” he asks matter-of-factly. 

Ferris sighs quickly and drones, “We’ll start with the floor” 

“Not long,” Demos blinks several times, “Probably long enough for my liver to collapse-” 

“- God, you’re pathetic- ” 

“-Where have you been, by the way? It’s been lonely here without you” 

Ferris stares down at Demos as he stares up at him, his eyes glazed over and mouth pulled into a tight grimace. 

He’s surprized Demos was thinking about him at all considering the state he’s in, but he’s not as far gone as Ferris was concerned he’d be, dark hair only tussled and pale skin lightly mottled with uneven flushes, a side effect of the head rush of alcohol and dappled orange glow of the courtyard. 

He looks the same as he did three year ago, like death and some sort of choir boy, but at the same time he doesn’t look the same at all. The round edges Ferris remembers him having have all squared out, if they were even there at all. His eyes are darker. His trim body leaner. Time does that to people, Ferris supposes. It hurts that he wasn’t around to watch it, the same way Demos missed him grow older too. 

Or perhaps it’s just very late and Ferris is too tired to think straight. 

__

> _Thoughts at 3 am: Now is not the time to regret not dating your best friend when you were in high school_

“I was tending to some important business in a coat rack” Ferris says dryly. 

Demos scoffs, “That sounds thoroughly idiotic” 

If there was one thing Ferris admires about drunk Demos is that he somehow still manages to maintain a fully functioning vocabulary even when utterly plastered. It at least communicates an impression of soberness, a helpful skill Ferris wishes more people possessed. 

The façade is broken though when Demos throws his arms out to the sides and says dramatically “Come! Lay down with me!” 

A few people have started listening in on the exchange. Ferris can see them, their heads inclined slightly towards his direction in the subtle I’m-totally-not-listening-to-this-train-wreck-of-an-intervention way. 

He runs his hand over his face, “Not happening, Demos” 

“Then I’ll come to you” Demos plants both hands on the ground, pushing his torso halfway off the damp grass before flopping back down again. 

“Credible effort, but that dismount was atrocious. Four out of ten” Ferris smirks. 

“Shut the fuck up” 

He tries again, getting a little further by bending his knees, but loses his balance, slipping on a section of damp grass and sending his body plummeting sideways. Ferris watches him curl into the foetal position, moaning into the turf pressed against his temple. 

“God, I’m so drunk” he whimpers. 

The audience to the encounter has grown considerably in the time it takes Demos is try and fail to leave the confines of the ground twice, at this point being the most interesting thing around for a bunch of people of varying levels of intoxication, all apparently with a passion for hanging out at three am and watching one sober man coach one drunk man’s attempts at getting himself off the floor. 

Demos cracks an eye open, allowing a second for it to focus before landing its incredulous gaze on Ferris. 

“You could help me up you know?” he drones. 

“And risk a chance to help you build character?” Ferris scoffs, “No way Ghost. If I helped you, you wouldn’t learn your lesson” 

“I’ve learnt my lesson professor Levinstien!” Demos rolls onto his back, legs flopping out like a dead fish and right arm slinging melodramatically across his forehead. “I get it now! You’re an asshole!” 

Ferris doesn’t get time to retaliate, a voice cutting him off halfway through conceptualising a retort. 

It leers “Come on Ferris, just help him up!” 

The voice comes from behind him, and when Ferris reels around to identify its owner he’s not surprised by who he sees. 

Adrian Ambrosi, as well as possessing an alliterated name, also possesses the biggest loud mouth this side of New Haven. 

He attends the same business lectures as Ferris’ at the rate of once every any-time-I-feel-like-it, and also apparently attended tonight’s party. Not that Ferris was expressly looking for him. Adrian is the kind of unfortunate thing that finds you, regardless of how good your intentions may be. 

He’s standing a safe distance away, but still too close for Ferris’ liking. 

Ferris narrows his eyes at him. “If you want him standing so badly why don’t you help him out yourself?” 

He’s not looking for conflict, Ferris is rarely looking for conflict, but being awake for more than 24 hours does things to people, usually none of them good. 

“Oh, I would” Adrian grips the Smirnoff in his hand tighter, obviously procuring it from the same enabler Demos did, and brings it to his mouth, sneering, “I just don’t want to spoil this beautiful moment going on between you two” 

Demos, miraculously not unconscious, screws up his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s had his fair share of run-ins with Adrian over the last few weeks, sharing much the same sympathies towards him as Ferris does. 

“I’m flattered that you think my preoccupation with the floor is beautiful, Adrian” he interjects. 

Adrian shrugs, shuffling his feet in preparation to leave. “Well, queers like you need all the flattery they can get. Right, Demos?” 

The air grows stale. 

Ferris sees out of the corner of his eye a few smirks break out on the faces of the peers around him, and he lets out a very long, very frustrated sigh. He has come to realise in the atmosphere that was Yale Collage, Demos’ sexuality is not broadcasted, but it is most definitely received, and public outcry rearing its ugly mug every so often like an overdue tantrum in a supermarket. 

Ferris can hear his friends’ body tense up on the ground beside him, and then listens as the nerves melt away into the grass and the soil as quickly as they arrived. 

Demos laughs, “I don’t know Adrian. Is that opposed to a queer like _you_ who never gets _any_?” 

__

> _Shit_

The recollection of the Demos unable to see the fine line of sense and sensibility through his own intoxication begins to dawn once more inside Ferris’ mind, the kind of Demos that mouths abuse at angry, drunk youths without a second thought for the consequences. 

Adrian stops turning to leave, casting his eyes towards Demos’ body lying spread eagle a few strides away. 

Demos smiles quietly to himself. Ferris decides unanimously that it’s time to go. 

“Come on, Demos” Ferris leans down and extends a hand, only to have to lightly batted away as his friend struggles to his feet again. 

“Don’t bother Ferris” He calmly mocks, regretting no taking the hand when he wobbles violently, stumbling a little as he finally regains a position resembling something considered vertical, an astounding achievement Ferris would celebrate if not for the unsavoury circumstances. 

In the final seconds of his rise, Demos’ hand seizes on the material of Ferris’ left shoulder, clutching it between his frozen fingers. 

He lifts his eyes to meet Adrian’s in a deadlock, “I wouldn’t want to spoil this beautiful moment going on between _us_ ” 

Demos’ eyes glint towards Adrian, and Ferris feels the blood drain from his head all the way down and out through the bottom of his shoes. 

__

> _Shitshitshit_

Adrian passes his bottle to a girl standing beside him without so much as looking at her, his whole being too focused on Demos to even register her squawk of surprise. Ferris’ eyes move between them, his hands hovering in space, unsure if grabbing Demos would be more or less helpful at this point. He settles for gripping Demos’ arm. 

He spits his next words out low and fast, “Demos, I think we should-” 

“-You think you’re so funny, don’t you Demos?!” Adrian barks, taking off his jacket and lazily throwing it to the ground, rolling the sleeves of his button-up to the elbows with very poor coordination. 

Demos sways, but the hand he has gripped over Ferris’ heart doesn’t weaken. 

He chuckles silently to himself before shrugging, “Not as funny as you seem to think you are!” 

__

> _Shitshitshitshitshit_

The thing about drunk Demos is that he’s exactly the same as sober Demos except with a few key differences. One of them is that drunk Demos is at a minimum 3 times more charming than sober Demos, but as if to compensate, his ability to perceive credible danger drops to an absolute zero. 

What you’re left with is a man who can inject more than one bottle of Smirnoff Black directly into the blood stream and still hold an intelligent conversation, but at the same time also believes wholeheartedly that he is some kind of God. 

Adrian is not some kind of God, but he is not a small man either. He’s on a sports team (probably football), taller than Ferris (by at least a foot), and seems like the kind of guy who would have a reputation for picking bloody, drunken fights on the Silliman courtyard lawn. 

Ferris knows Demos could kill him, that fact is irrefutable. Demos is a pedigree bred killing machine, trained and crafted with such precise normality that anyone unaware of it, anyone not Ferris, would never be able to imagine. 

But that’s when he’s sober and armed. The Demos’ whose grip is loosening on his coat right now is neither of those things. 

Ferris tightens his hand around Demos’ arm. “Don’t even think about it, you idiot” He spits. 

His friend’s arm is warm through the layers of his jacket, but Ferris doesn’t have long to feel it before his hand is shrugged off, Demos’ jacket with it. 

“You think I can’t take him?” Demos speaks with confidence far beyond his capacity. 

“That’s exactly what I think!” 

Ferris moves to grab him again, to pull him away, but he’s too fast, ducking out of the reach of Ferris’ clutches and stumbling over towards Adrian. 

“Demos!” Ferris shouts. 

The two men shuffle towards each other. 

“Hey!” 

Ferris sees Demos raise his fists and… 

“Get back here!” 

…Get totally punched in the face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How much research did this chapter require you ask?  
> too much and yet still not enough
> 
> chapters are getting longer  
> believe me it only gets worse from here
> 
> I modelled the fear of the French exam off my own fear for my exams  
> I should be studying


	3. a fist fight, two punches, the assertion of authority, and the homosexual agenda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferris just can't seem to stop having encounters

__

> _Fuck_

Ferris, tentatively holding Demos' Armani jacket, watches on with the rest of the crowd as Demos' body staggers backwards, his fists still held aloft and blood spilling from both nostrils down towards his mouth. Adrian pulls back, sneering, looking thoroughly pleased with his opening blow. 

Ferris thinks pathetically that maybe that's it, maybe that'll be enough for Demos to stop, but then witnesses with alarm as his friend sniffs once, wipes the blood across his face in a streak of scarlet, and jumps straight back in. 

Fist fights aren't usually Demos' style, suiting Seamus more in terms of personal preference. The drunken anarchy Ferris was preparing to foil Demos doing tonight followed along the lines of laundered property and exam cheat sheets, the kind of profiteering bullshit the two of them got up to back in high school, only on a much larger, more dangerously illegal scale. 

If things got bad, Ferris was ready to prevent car fires, chemistry lab gas explosions and flooded libraries. School yard tomfoolery suited Demos in the innocent way outright drunken violence didn't provide. 

But a lot of alcohol and a late night changes things, and Demos' affiliation with drunken violence seems to increase in tandem with the amount of vodka in his bloodstream. 

Ferris watches the fight divulge into chaos. 

__

> _The outlook: chances of somebody dying and/or being incarcerated have risen to above 50%._

The crowd cheers as Demos lands a few punches, most of them sloppy uppercuts, into Adrian's jaw, but it is painfully clear who has the advantage in this fight. 

After Demos' pathetic slaps, Adrian swings his colossal fist multiple times into Demos' cheek, making him lurch back and spit onto the ground, blood black and shiny in the yellow lamplight. He rushes forwards, ready to finish Demos off, when suddenly Demos spins and kicks, heel landing squarely into Adrian's chest. 

Winded, he stumbles backwards, hunching over. The fight suspends in time for a few ragged seconds. 

Ferris seizes his chance. 

He discards the jacket and the bottle as he strides over, arms clasping around both of Demos' pale wrists, his knuckles blotched with blood. 

"Funs over!" he shouts into Demos' hair, attempting to drag him away. 

He doesn't make it very far. 

"Hey!" Adrian yells from somewhere behind him. 

Ferris reels around with the full intention of yelling something back at him, but is instead greeted with a fist flying towards his jaw, making contact before he can think of anything funny to say. 

It hurts. Like someone turned the lights on too quickly or like staring at a blurry picture for too long. But pain is something well acquainted with Ferris, and the familiar crack of white and the sensation of heaviness passes through him as he feels the hands he has around Demos' wrists fall away, his body fall away. 

Ferris staggers into a crouch. 

It all rushes back pretty fast, though. Refocusing again. 

His hand comes up to feel his jaw. 

__

> _Analysis: No blood, but the bruise is going to look pretty damn impressive._

The crowd around him stop cheering, dropped their voices from panicked murmurs to low whispers, something Ferris is thankful for as his eyes shift between sharp and fuzzy for a few blinks. 

Suddenly on the ground, he feels sympathy for the Demos of ten minutes ago, confused and incapable of any kind of perpendicular angle. He wills the emotion from his mind with a crack of his neck. 

When he looks up, he meets the side of Demos' face. 

Ferris slowly turns to follow his gaze to an Adrian who looks more confused than he did when he decided to punch Ferris a couple of seconds ago. 

The hollowed curve of Demos' profile communicates a great deal of emotions, most of which are undecipherable. The ones that are decipherable burn in the whites of his eyes. 

The pieces fit into place. 

"Demos, wait! I'm fine-" 

He moves before Ferris can even finish. 

Demos charges forward, catching Adrian by his dumbfounded neck as one hand seizes a fist full of his button-up, while the other brings down a fist hard and fast into the bridge of his nose. 

Ferris hears the crack. 

As Adrian lolls backwards Demos releases his shirt, colliding his knuckles sideways across his cheek before he falls away. 

Adrian reels over, but not before Demos lands a few more sharp kicks into his stomach. 

The crowd is stunned into silence, able to do nothing as they watch Demos fist a hand in Adrian's hair, forcing his gushing, bloody face into look at his. 

"Go at me all you like," He twists the hand in Adrian's hair, earning a pained cry. "But you _never_ lay a hand on him!" 

The words are spat as Demos savingly points towards Ferris, still crouched on the ground, hand cradling his cheek. 

" _Ever!_ " 

Ferris feels his ears redden, but it's not because of the eyes of the crowd landing on him suddenly naming him the accidental MVP of Silliman courtyard punch up. 

Demos' words touch him in a violated way. 

His heart stiffens with a few untimely skips, erratic and fleeting. Ferris forces them down. 

On the grass, the fight suspends in a stalemate. 

Adrian dribbles thick clots of blood onto the ground, not meeting Demos' eyes. Demos doesn't let go of Adrian's hair, holding him still as he would a rabid animal. 

It's quiet. Ferris thinks maybe it's over. 

But then some punk in the crowd sounds a loud wolf whistles. 

As Demos whirls his head around to look for the culprit, Adrian springs forward, crashing his face into Demos' and sending him toppling over onto the ground. He doesn't stay there long, rolling back onto his feet in time to block Adrian's next vicious swing. 

A fist hits Demos' mouth as an elbow strikes Adrian's eye, both men stumbling together, grabbing for each other's clothes with uncoordinated fingers. The crowd goes mad. 

The noise is deafening, much louder than anything Ferris has heard tonight, the sound of roaring cheers and screams as Demos and Adrian go at each other. 

Ferris rises to his feet and watches, paralysed in uselessness. 

He's about to jump in himself, tear the fight apart, when a sudden, long whistle echoes through the courtyard, shrill in the midnight air. 

The cheering stops. The clumsy wresting between Adrian and Demos stops. Every face in the vicinity turns towards the sound. 

The Silliman college master and four deans stride their way towards the crowd. 

They're shouting, but Ferris is absolutely positive that not one person on the lawn is hearing them. 

Nobody moves. 

Hiro yells "Run!" first. 

Ferris doesn't see much after that. He watches Adrian drop Demos to the floor and leg it towards College street. He sees the guys from his French course scatter and flee in different directions, Hiro charge past him towards one of the exits in a blur of limbs and adrenalin. 

The whole crowd disperses so quickly Ferris wonders if it was choreographed. 

Somewhere in the midst of it all, Ferris runs over to Demos. He's in much the same position as he was when Ferris first found him, only now his face is caked in blood, some of it dryer than the rest, most of it on his face but a fair amount of it down his shirt, and probably has a concussion. 

"We have to go!" Ferris shouts, unashamedly panicked. 

"No shit, really?!" Demos shouts back, throwing his arms up in a gesture that communicates a very simple message. 

Ferris obliges, leaning down to scoop Demos up, throwing one limp arm over his shoulders and staggering with forced speed towards Timothy Dwight, but only because failing to do so would mean having a run in with a master, facing complete social suicide, and possibly even expulsion. 

__

> _Ah, just like old times._

Stumbling quickly, flinging his head over a shoulder to watch as five of his peers are manhandled and seated on the damp grass by the deans, Ferris wonders what took the faculty so long to organise an intervention. Parties on college grounds aren't unheard of, but this is by far the worst reaction time Ferris has had the privilege to witness. 

They run out of the hot zone, run in this instance meaning quickly stumble as fast as a three-legged-race method allows. If any of the staff decide to give chase they'll catch up in no time, but Ferris decides he doesn't care that much as he slows into a fast walk and adjusts Demos' weight, what little of it there is, on his shoulders. 

No words pass between them, the only sound being the scuffle of their feet on brick, and the uneven wheezes escaping from Demos mouth, occasionally gargling on a blood clot stuck in his throat. 

Ferris cringes. 

"You sound absolutely disgusting" he mutters. 

Demos chuckles, but that just sounds worse. "If you want me to stop breathing, just let me know" 

Ferris sighs, the hand he has around Demos' waist tightens unconsciously. "I don't want you to stop breathing" he says. 

Demos lowers his head. Ferris can see his friends' eyes watching the out of time pace of their steps. 

"Sorry for ruining your night, Ferris" the words slip from Demos' mouth like they're too heavy for him to carry anymore. 

They round the corner of the residential college, its windows dark but peacefully occupied. Ferris is suddenly reminded of how late it is, tiredness sweeping over him as they navigate up the stairs. 

"You didn't ruin my night, Demos" he says slowly. 

"Don't lie to me" 

"I'm not" He defiantly states, handling Demos to the front door with mandatory effort, the wood pushing against his free shoulder as he shoves it open. "I think I enjoyed watching Adrian beat you to a pulp as much as I enjoyed him punching me in the face" 

Pulled flush against him as they stagger through the door, Demos' hand clings to the fabric above Ferris' heart like it did in the courtyard, but this time with an urgency Ferris doesn't recall. 

When he looks down at his friend, close enough to feel the brush of his exhale against his cheeks, Demos is giving him a look that falls somewhere between remorseful and reasonably offended. 

But there's something else too. A secret in the crease of his eyebrows or in the pull of his mouth. Ferris' heart does the thing where it seizes up and beats like his blood is too thick to fill his body. 

Everything about him is raw and bleeding, from the pain in his eyes to the split in his lip, and Ferris feels the strangest urge to lean down. 

He doesn't though. 

He closes the door. 

Demos drops his head into the crook of Ferris' shoulder as they stumble towards the stairwell. 

"Thanks, Demos. Your bloody face wiped all over my favourite coat. Just want I always wanted" Ferris takes the stairs one step at a time. 

Demos doesn't reply, just groans and smacks a wilted hand over Ferris head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watch John Mulaney's 'Why I Don't Drink Anymore' sketch to have a good reference for what i imagine this whole scene plays out like


	4. a dorm room, domestics, one bed, and ill-timed over tiredness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> encounters of a different kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reconciliation is the flavour of the month

No-one disturbs them as they limp down the hallway towards Ferris’ room. When Ferris fumbles with his key, eventually slotting it in and cracking the door open, the lights are still off, just as he’d left them last night. 

Last night. Ferris groans. 

__

> _A realisation: This late night has carried on for far too long_

“Is Hiro back?” Demos drones 

“If he is, I’m about to destroy his mood lighting” Ferris replies as he flicks on the lights. They shuffle into Ferris’ room silently. The bed against the window and the desk against the bed, it’s a functional use of space, but Ferris stalls in the doorway, unsure of where to dump Demos. 

"The bed” Demos barks. 

“Fine” Ferris seats him down. 

Now properly illuminated, Ferris can finally assess the extent of his injuries. 

__

> _Damage Report: concussion, split lip, two grazed cheeks, bloody nose, scarped eyebrow, a whole lot of bruises and the sad remains of mild alcohol poisoning_

__

> _Treatment: probably a hospital_

Ferris doesn’t consider himself a medical professional, he’d barely call himself an expert, but he’s survived enough dunk peer emergencies similar to this to at least have a protocol, most of which are thanks to three years of Seamus. 

“What time is it?” Demos asks as Ferris starts peeling his friends’ shirt off, throwing it into the laundry basket by his desk. 

“Too early” He lazily pushes Demos to lie down, takes off his shoes and then heads to the common room. 

Cursing as he slots a few coins into the vending machine, a bottle of water tumbling out, he hears Demos shout from between the walls, “What time is your exam tomorrow?” 

Count on Demos, half drunk and half unconscious, to remember something about Ferris’ life he had been completely unconcerned about ten hours ago. 

“Also too early” He yells back. Ferris grabs a spare dish cloth for good measure and shuffles back into the bedroom. Demos lies where he left him, arms and legs draped over the side of the bed, eyes glassy. 

“You look like shit” Ferris says as he wanders over. 

“Do you _want_ me to throw up on your bed?” Demos smirks lopsidedly, his wit going fuzzy around the edges, not as sharp as it was before he had the sense beaten out of him. 

Ferris grabs his legs, lifting them so he can sit underneath them, and props himself up back against the window. 

He pours water onto the cloth. “Sit up” 

“Yes, mom” Demos groans, dramatically flopping his torso upright, resting an elbow on Ferris’ shoulder. 

Ferris’ chest constricts with stubborn annoyance, heartbeats hard against his ribcage, as he grabs Demos’ chin, turning his face about to assess the ratio of clear skin to dried blood (about 30/70), before gripping the cloth and scrubbing. 

Demos’ face screws up like a baby’s does before it starts crying. The complaints follow soon after. 

“How did it come to this?” Demos turns his face so Ferris can scrub his cheek. 

“You almost beat a man to death-” 

“-Yeah, I know _that_. I mean how did it _come_ to this?” He tries to make a hand gesture but his motor control is still in the shop for repairs. 

Ferris wets the cloth again. “You’re going to have to elaborate, Demos” 

“The party!” 

“What about it?” 

“It’s exam week! Why are there even parties _on_ during exam week? I thought Yale was Ivy League? Aren’t you squares meant to be cramming and not- 

“-Demos, you’re bleeding” 

“Fuck” 

By the time they finish fresh blood is still oozing out of most of the gashes, but Ferris is starting to have a very hard time keeping his eyes open and focussed long enough to do anything about them. 

Demos flops onto his back. “Dress them tomorrow. I promise not to split them while we’re asleep” 

Ferris toes off his shoes, too tired to argue, too tired to change out of his jeans and shirt, only enough energy left to manage standing. He refused to look at his clock for the entire time they’d been in his room, hoping that if he didn’t see the time he could pretend it’s earlier than it actually is. 

As he passes his desk to turn off the lights he spies his French notes lying open and unread. He grimaces as he plunges the room into darkness. 

Yellow streetlight filters in from the other side of the tree outside his window, splashing the walls and the floor with an array of golden shapes. The silhouette of Demos’ body, bare chest rising and falling with forced evenness, doesn’t slink from his bed as he draws closer. 

Demos turns his head into the pillow, but his eyes meet Ferris’ in the darkness. 

“Are you going to kick me out?” the words are breathed so quietly Ferris wonders if they were said at all. 

__

> _You should kick him out_

Ferris takes off his glasses, folds them and places them onto his desk. 

“No,” 

__

> _Idiot_

“But you’re gonna have to move over” Ferris turns out the covers and lies down next to him. 

The next few seconds consists of a lot of wriggling, a few elbow jabs, just as many loud winces, and finally ends with Demos’ body crammed up against the wall and Ferris almost falling out of the other side. Dormitory beds are not designed for sharing Ferris begins to understand, realising that’s probably the reason why Hiro’s many sweethearts have never seen night through. 

But Demos is here, in his bed, lying so close that the line of their bodies touches under the duvet all the way down the middle. He forces his head into the pillow, knowing how red his ears must be, feeling the warmth on his face, and is thankful that Demos is lying with his back to him in semi-mottled darkness. As his eyelids grow heavier, he’s lulled to sleep by Demos’ quiet wheezing. 

“If your lung collapses, I’m going to have a very hard time explaining this to the authorities” Ferris croaks slowly, his voice losing strength with fatigue. 

It earns him a silent laugh, Demos’ small frame shaking lightly under the sheets. Ferris looks at the back of his head, the familiar curve of his neck, the way his hair has splayed over the pillow, and can see the tiniest corner of his mouth turned up in a grin. Ferris’ chest feels like it’s going to open up and swallow him. 

__

> _An important question: When did you get so gay for your best friend?_

“I promise not to die in my sleep if you promise not to hog the blankets” Demos whispers into the wall, hand clutching at the edge of the duvet in mock accusation. 

Ferris smiles slowly, letting the night settle around him, his breaths and Demos’ breaths synchronising like the chimes of a windup toy slowing down to a stop. 

“Deal” he breathes. 

They lay together for a long time, fatigue tugging at Ferris’ consciousness with lazy urgency, but the stiffness of Demos’ back arches like the end of an unfinished sentence, and it holds Ferris just long enough to hear the sigh escape his friends’ lips. 

“I’m sorry” his back confesses in the silence between exhales. 

Ferris is too tired for apologies and doesn’t trust his throat to speak, but the words croak into the side of the pillow anyway, “About what?” 

Demos’ back is as cold and still as porcelain, but his hunch betrays him. 

“About letting you get hurt” 

Time stops meaning anything important to Ferris for a little while, not that it meant very much to begin with. Demos’ words prickle his skin, begging to be acknowledged, but tiredness clouds his thinking before he can dwell on them long enough. 

As his eyelids droop, he resents the silence in the space between their bodies. 

Suddenly, very tentatively, Demos’ cold fingers begin to unhand themselves from the duvet and lace themselves in Ferris’ with the shyest of touches. Half asleep and unable to stop it, Ferris watches from underneath hooded eyes as Demos’ back rolls over, unhurried. 

He snakes a hand across Ferris’ ribs to grip at his shirt once more, dark hair coming to rest on his chest, ear pressed flush against his heart. 

They lie together, clothed and unclothed, holding on as they slip from wake. 

It’s intimate, like a slow dance. 

Ferris heart beats snap like bulldog clips on taxation. 

His free hand clutches at the mattress, body heavy and unmoving. He’s too tired to push him off, to deal with this, but Ferris fights to stay conscious regardless. 

He stays very still, listening to Demos’ breathing for a very long time. 

The lights flicker outside, cars drive by in the distance. Demos’ lips part ever so slightly against his chest as he sighs, his fingers tremble around the shirt, hesitating, like he can’t decide whether to let go or not. 

Ferris can feel his friends’ face tighten against his chest, then watches as Demos slowly releases his grip, bringing his hand up to cup Ferris’ jaw. __

Demos’ head is tense and unmoving as he mouths soundlessly into his shirt, “This is my fault” 

Ferris lets his friends’ fingers trace down the line of his jaw, thumb cold as it smooths over the bruise most likely already blooming. Things start coming into focus. 

“I’m fine, Demos” Ferris winces, not a confident statement, as Demos’ fingers brush over the place where Adrian punched him only a few minutes ago. 

Ferris remembers that time means nothing anymore, it could have been days since Adrian, years, and none of it matters. 

Demos digs his forehead into Ferris’ chest, muffling his words, “I promised myself,” he breaths, “…that I wouldn’t let you get hurt anymore” 

A part of Ferris that is very far away, untouchable through the exhaustion, almost laughs, but the loud and steady thump of Ferris’ tired heartbeat drowns him out. He steals himself, gripping Demos’ cold fingers in his and lets his head roll back into the pillow. 

He speaks the words under his breath, letting them float up to the ceiling, “You can’t stop me getting hurt, Demos” 

His friend filches against his chest, hands fisting as he forces out a shaky breath. 

Fighting through the fatigue, Ferris weakly raises his hand to hold Demos’ shoulder. His skin is so smooth Ferris lets his eyes fall closed, glad his dick is as tired as his mind, otherwise this situation would be even worse. 

“Besides,” Ferris rakes out a whisper, “You should be worrying about yourself more, not about me” 

“I can’t” Demos suddenly grips Ferris’ shirt tightly, supporting himself as he brings his torso up. When Ferris battles his eyes open and casts them down, he’s met with Demos’ hard gaze, outlined partially in gold, fuzzy around the edges, bloody, hollow, utterly desperate. 

“I’m always worrying about you” 

The weight of the words hits him harder than Adrian’s punch did, and when Ferris searches for something to say in reply, he finds himself coming up completely short. 

His mind is slipping, unable to hold on to the meanings, to stop the beating of the heart racing underneath Demos’ thin fingers, as fatigue slips him under. 

Time means nothing, but Ferris wants it too, want to hold on. 

Demos screws up his face and looks away, his hands, still frozen, threatening to break Ferris’ in his grip. 

“I promised myself I’d stop it” he spits out his reply in dripping whispers, remorse twisting behind his tongue, “And every time, I just- ” 

“-Forget it, Demos,” Ferris murmurs, “It doesn’t matter” 

“But it does, Ferris!” Demos shoots him a condemning glare, eyes ablaze and raised voice divulging the silence. 

“It does matter!” 

Ferris feels the slide of Demos’ nails as they drag up is arm, both hands seizing the material of his shirt with such force he thinks his fingers might break. 

“Because I can’t protect you! You keep getting hurt because of me and I can’t stop it!” His fingers tremble with every word, his cries disparate as they’re shot into Ferris’ chest 

“And here we are again, on the second time around and nothing’s changed!” 

The air leaves his body, tiny shoulders collapsing in on themselves. Folding over like crumpled parking tickets. 

“I get a second chance to be with you, and I just keep _fucking it up_ ” 

His voice breaks at the end, shattering on Ferris’ chest in a derelict mess. 

If Demos is about to cry he hides it very well, Ferris supposes, body concaved and face hidden by the dappled shadows. 

Ferris thanks the reason the rawness in his mouth doesn’t turn into a sob is because he’s too exhausted to let it make it that far, escaping his body is a quiet exhale 

His ribs are broken, sternum cracked and bleeding out, heart swollen and completely unguarded in the darkness. There is a cry in him somewhere, but his eyes are too tired to find the tears. 

It hurts all over, like getting accidentally tumble dried, and the pain numbs the edges of Ferris’ everything. Nothing makes sense, he’s too tired for it all. 

He can’t feel the tips of his fingers as he draws shapes in Demos’ shoulder blade. 

The world is sanguine around the edges, light and sound far away, as he hears his voice say two words he didn’t know he had the energy to speak. 

“You’re wrong” 

Demos’ glassy eyes stare down at him for a beat, tightening the skeletal hands he has around Ferris’ shirt. His face, obscured by the shade, is unreadable. 

An emotion overtakes Ferris, strong and unmatched by his weakness. It makes him lift his hand to clutch at Demos’ own gripped in his shirt, lacing their fingers against his chest. 

He feels no embarrassment, he feels nothing at all, only Demos’ smooth skin entwined with his. 

Reality shrouds in a haze, and through it Ferris’ tired eyes watch Demos’ face screw up like a childs, temple ducking slyly to Ferris’ chest. He drags it across Ferris’ shoulder towards the empty pillow, head falling onto it with a note of finality. 

But his hands don’t let go. His arms still drape across Ferris chest, one hand counting the pulse in his grip. 

Everything seems so distant, so untouchable, as Ferris turns his head to look at Demos. His pale face wears an expression of mortification, similar to the one Ferris supposes he’s wearing, and in the final moments before he falls out of consciousness, Ferris cannot be bothered to panic about the lack of distance between either of their faces. 

They stare at each other, alone in Ferris’ room, in Ferris’ dorm, only a few hours before sunrise. Ferris wants to keep thinking, to analyse everything Demos just told him, cross-examine how much it makes him hurt, why is hurts, to find new ways to describe how nice Demos’ fingers feel laced in his own. 

But he can’t seem hold onto anything. Exhaustion wraps itself around his mind and drags it slowly down, under and away. 

The edges begin to fade out as Ferris gives Demos’ fingers a weak squeeze. 

He waits for Demos to squeeze back before letting his eyes slide shut. 

\-----------------

Ferris dreams. 

He sees three boys sitting in a park, talking about the future. 

He sees a building burning to the ground, its windows smashed, flames licking the sky. 

He sees a black funeral on a rainy day, a boy holding his mother’s hand. 

He sees a man with an umbrella raise a hand in a silent wave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demos talking about not having parties on during exam week  
> here I am not studying  
> can you say self loathing?
> 
> this chapter was the most difficult to write


	5. a rain cloud, an art gallery, four kisses, and a French exam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferris has the most important encounter of them all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> home stretch

Cigarette smoke. That’s the first thing Ferris smells as his eyelids struggle to open, unready to face the day. 

They come into focus on the wall where Demos’ head should be, but is not. His lazy, half asleep mind finds that fact disconcerting. It’s too dark for the sun to be up, a blue haze enveloping the room, accompanied by the sound of light rain, the shadow of heavy clouds. Ferris definitely hasn’t slept through the night. 

He considers rolling over and passing out again, but as he moves to turn his knee lightly bumps something sitting on the bed where Demos’ body should be. 

Ferris’ eyes crack open to see him, sitting cross-legged, in the small space between Ferris’ legs and the window. 

Demos’ elbows rest on the open windowsill, a cigarette balanced in two gaunt fingers, and profile looking out at the rain with a hardened gaze, starring daggers at something too far away to touch. Ferris recognises it from somewhere he can’t quite recall. 

“You can’t smoke in here” He croaks 

It startles Demos, his head whipping around to land his gaze on him. Ferris doesn’t move, just slowly and deliberately quirks an eyebrow. Demos’ eyes flit between Ferris’ face and the cigarette. 

“Shit, sorry,” He breathes out a laugh, but doesn’t move to put it out. “Guess I forgot” 

Ferris knows he’s lying, knows the memory of last night is still thick in his mind and souring his words, but he can’t find the energy to care as he listens to the spring rain, rubbing a hand over his eyes as they adjust to the shadowed light. He holds back a wince as he bumps his swollen jaw. 

As he drags his hands down over his face his eyes can’t help but fall, like the theory of gravity, back to Demos again. 

He broke his promise. The cuts on his face have reopened, fresh blood sticky on the graze of his cheek, but what Ferris is really preoccupied with are the bruises. 

Without a shirt, Ferris can see them decorate Demos’ body in dappled purple and blue splatters. A violet one patches his eye, a teal one blotches down his neck, magenta ones spread like wings across his collar bones. 

Ghost white skin matte against the stains in the dank morning mist, his friend blows smoke rings out the window, and Ferris wonders how long he’s been awake for, how long he’s been waiting for him to wake up. 

“What are _you_ staring at?” 

He’s broken from his thoughts by Demos’ incredulous scowl. Caught in the act of just totally checking his best friend out, Ferris quickly busies himself with adjusting the hem of his shirt. 

“Nothing,” He tugs at a loose thread, watching it spiral and unravel between his fingers. “I was just considering selling you to an art gallery” 

Demos huffs a curt laugh around his cigarette, looking down to assess the damage for himself. 

“How much do you think I’m worth?” he asks in a tone that’s neither serious nor teasing, but somewhere in between. 

“Not a lot” Ferris sits up sheepishly, crossing his legs over the covers in parallel of his friends’, “They’d ask for a damaged goods discount. Probably halves your total value.” 

Demos smirks, completely unsurprised, “And you’d sell me anyway?” 

Ferris shrugs in response. “I could use the money” 

“Bullshit” Demos mutters as he tamps the ash off onto the sill. Ferris frowns at the mess, and then joins Demos as he stares out the window and into the rain. 

The conversation from last night, a haze of words, swims around Ferris’ mind, staining his blood with the heavy feeling of misery. It doesn’t help that if he thinks hard enough, he can still recall the weight of Demos’ head above his heart, the grip of his hand against his chest. The delicate curve of his fingers intertwined with his. 

__

> _The answer to an important question: You’ve been gay for your best friend for much longer than you realise._

“I wouldn’t sell you” 

Ferris casts a glance away from watching the downpour and towards Demos’ profile. He’s sucking the last drag out of the cigarette, eyes cast downward. It takes Ferris a second to remember what they were talking about. 

“And why’s that?” he asks, voice quiet against the rain. 

“Because,” Demos begins, placing the charred remains of the roll on the sill, lining it up alongside the grain with his fingertip. “I already gave you up once,” 

If air could tighten, hold on to time in a quiet vice, Ferris supposes it does in the space between him and Demos. Last night replays inside his mind like a broken record, the scratches cutting lines on his skin. 

His friend pulls his hands back, placing them pensively in his lap. Ferris’ tired mind doesn’t let him think of anything to say as he drags his gaze out the window. 

“It made me thoroughly miserable” Demos gently finishes. 

Ferris adamantly holds onto the silence. Demos does not. 

“You’re probably worthless anyway” he adds bluntly. 

“Look at that bruise,” He gestures to Ferris jaw, “Pathetic” 

“Thanks, Demos” 

The atmosphere doesn’t loosen, holding the room still as the rain continues to drizzle down in the world outside. Two bodies sit side by side, observing it from an open window. A television with only one station. 

Last night, falling asleep in a slow dance, had revealed many things to Ferris. Like how much Demos actually cares, how much he regrets, three years of blaming himself stacked up like sales bonds unable to be sold, all thanks to the hazy overdramatising of a drunken fist fight. 

It’s Ferris’ fault, he knows, for being a terrible friend. And for getting punched in the face. But also for giving up three years ago. 

For leaving. For coming back. For not making it clear enough to Demos that none of it matters as long as they’re together. 

It pulls something out of him, guilt buried in a shallow grave, and the sudden tightness of his room caught in the early morning haze settles his nerves in a sore position. 

He looks at Demos. Things don’t get much easier 

__

> _Why are these things never clear?_

The bags under his friends’ eyes are dark and heavy, the split in his lip juicy with a forming scab, but Ferris can swear in the rising light, eyes cast out the window, he’s never seen Demos look so utterly plain. It’s a look that suits him in the most unsettling of ways. 

Ferris hears the rain slow, heavy drops smacking noisily on the leaves of the tree, the tiles on the roof. Hypnotically peaceful. 

He wants to kiss Demos. Right on the mouth. Like kissing Demos right on the mouth would solve all his problems. 

“You’re staring again” Demos says abruptly, eyes not breaking from the view outside. 

Ferris ignores him, refusing to let himself look away. 

“You’re wrong” he states. 

Demos flinches, but doesn’t move. 

“You’re not fucking it up” 

Ferris can hear his friend run through as much of last night as he can remember, eyes hardening on the line of his cigarette. 

“Yeah, but I am though” he retorts slowly. 

“You’re really not” 

Their shoulders brush as Ferris rests his elbows beside his friends’, the cold dawn glinting somewhere just over the horizon. It splashes the clouds apricot in the distance beyond the dormitory rooftop, bathing the room in white gold light, and both Ferris and Demos watch as the fog clings to the air in a thin but disparate haze. 

“I want you to understand” Ferris starts, slow and quite, “That you don’t have to protect me” 

Demos’ eyes are hard, his face a mask. Ferris can feel his friends’ pulses race through their touching wrists. 

“I’m tired of seeing you get hurt because of me” he whispers. 

“I’m not your responsibility” 

“I don’t want to lose you again, Ferris!” Demos spits 

Ferris grips the window, heart racing, “Does it honestly look like I’m going anywhere?” 

Demos whips is head around to face Ferris’, eyes glassy as they reflect more shine than could possibly exist in the early mist, darting across Ferris’ face in frantic searches. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out, dying in his throat before they can even be born. 

Demos blushes furiously and drags his eyes to the ground, the ruddy flush in his hollow cheeks betraying his resolve. 

“No,” he huffs a sigh, steadying his breath, “It doesn’t” 

__

> _A shocking revelation: You are 100% gay for a man who is undoubtedly going to lead you to an early grave._

The patter of rain on the leaves outside slows to a scattered stop, white light filtering in through the trees and catching on Demos’ blotchy skin. He slowly retracts his hands from the window, sliding them calmly across the bed sheets so can lean back on them, face mottled with a dying flush and a taut frown. 

Ferris want to kiss him, and it makes his chest swells with disgust. It’s a pathetic teenagers crush, irrational and unwanted, and Ferris almost hates it as much as he hates himself for having it. 

The way it burns his skin, boils him from the inside out. 

Demos’ white skin reddens as he draws delicate circle across the base of his neck, and Ferris feels like he could go into cardiac arrest 

__

> _A realisation: How would kissing your best friend right on the mouth fix anything?_

“Would you stop _staring_ at me,” Demos voice cuts through his thoughts, “You’re freaking me out” 

“S-sorry” Ferris splutters 

“You should be,” Demos says quietly, lifting a hand to scratch the graze on his cheek, eyes cast away towards the rising sun sifting through the trees. 

“God you’re such a freak” he adds quietly. 

Ferris forces a laugh through his nose, “I’m not the one who was so adamant on _spooning_ last night” 

Demos shoots him a glare, his mouth drawn out in a line of bruised skin and absolute disdain. 

It’s there. Ferris sees it. Creased in the tug of his eyebrows, raw in the whites of his eyes. A fear. 

He saw a glimpse of it last night, not for long, downstairs by the door, in his bed in the lamplight. A face like a boy lost in a supermarket, but too proud to ask for help. 

It looks at him now, masked by scorn, but Ferris still sees it, unable to look away. 

“I was trying to strangle you, you must have been too tired to remember” Demos’ voice croaks against the last sprinkled raindrops. 

“God, you’re pathetic” Ferris hears himself whisper. 

Before Demos can screw up his face anymore, Ferris leans down and presses their lips together. 

He swallows the small gasp Demos’ breathes as best he can, clumsily tracing his lips in a chaste, short, accidentally on purpose kind of way. He doesn’t reach for him, cup his face, dip him backwards. Ferris’ hands remain in his lap as they sit cross-legged on his bed, kissing like children. 

Ferris pulls back as swiftly as he came, dragging his lips across Demos’ as he slowly straightens his back. He returns to gazing out the window, like doing that would totally hide the fact he just kissed his best friend right on the mouth, stop the cold air scotching his red face, stop his rabbit heart beating a speed beyond control. 

He feels his ribcage split into pieces out of embarrassment. 

He listens to Demos try and piece them back together again with little success, his shallow, panicked breaths standing out against the rain. 

Ferris intestines flip over and collapse. 

__

> _shit_

“S-Sorry” Ferris stumbles quietly, mouth pulled tight with shame. 

Nobody speaks. 

Suddenly, with great earnest, Ferris feels Demos’ gaunt hand gingerly take a hold of his. He looks down at it, at the knuckles stained cyan and scarlet, skinned raw and clasping tightly around his own. He drags his head up just in time for Demos’ other hand to brace his cheek, cupping his face as he brings their mouths together again. 

Demos’ lips burn. He kisses him with an open mouth, sighing into his lips as he presses frantically forward. Ferris opens his mouth and suddenly there’s more tongue than he’s ever known in his life. He tastes like cigarettes and day old vodka, it’s disgusting, but when Ferris feels Demos’ flushed cheeks against his own, mottled and bruised, it sears him, his hands flying up to grip at his friends wrists as he drags his parted lips over Demos’. 

Suddenly, Demos winces and recoils, releasing Ferris’ face as he brings the back of his hand to his mouth. His breath is ragged and muffled against his fingers, “Merda” 

“What happened?” Ferris rasps anxiously. 

“Nothing” Demos quickly grabs a hold of Ferris’ shirt and pushes him backwards, straddling him into the mattress. 

“Hey, wait-” Ferris’ words are swallowed by Demos’ open mouth back against his, stifling his breath back down his throat. The sudden taste of metallic overwhelms the tobacco and the alcohol, the potent mix even worse than before. Ferris drags his tongue across Demos’ lip, blood sticky in his mouth, and breaks away. 

“Fuck, you taste awful” he wheezes. 

Demos sighs a long breathe, eyes forced shut, before leaning out of Ferris’ space. He brings up a thumb to pad the bleeding split in his lip, whole mouth red with blood and face flushed scarlet. 

“Sorry” he says as he settles back on Ferris’ legs. 

Neither of them speaks for a long time. 

Ferris curses the heat on his face, the half hard dick in his jeans, the mortification that comes from accidentally making out with your best friend. He’s at a loss for words, a loss for everything, his pulse thrumming too loudly inside his head. 

He forces his body up on his hands to look at Demos, who doesn’t look like he’s faring too well either, blush dappled and grimace strained. 

“So…” Ferris hums. 

Demos drags both hands down his face, filching when he remembers his mouth, “So…” 

A beat. 

Ferris coughs past his burning cheeks, “Sorry about your… lip” 

“Sorry about your heterosexuality” Demos’ terse reply comes out muffled from behind his palms. 

Ferris fights off a shameful smirk tugging at his cheek. 

__

> _Rest in pieces_

The awkward silence that follows tastes worse than Demos’ mouth did, sticking to Ferris’ skin and growing like mould in the quietness between them. Their pulses beat in time, Demos hiding his face behind his skinned palms, ears flushed redder with the same blood on his mouth. Ferris wishes the bed would just open up and swallow him. 

“Look at us, we’re like a couple of virgins” Demos exasperatedly laughs into his hands, removing them from his face with a sigh. 

His eyes are dark when you meet with Ferris’. 

In the cold dawn light from beyond the dormitory rooftop, sifting through the leafs and casting stippled shapes across his room, Ferris’ feels his ribs break again, gutting him open right down the middle. 

He wants to shout “just kidding, you idiot, what kind of monster falls in love with his best friend?” and go back to the way things were before they we’re so messed up, but that assertion would be so bogus he couldn’t even force the words past his lips if he tried. They lay dead on the operating table at the edge of his tongue, cause of death; complications during procedure. 

Demos’ weight is steady and poised as he balances on Ferris’ legs, and he is lost. 

The worst best friend alive, the kind that can’t stop remembering the way Demos’ mouth curves on his, the brush of his breath on Ferris’ skin, the touch of ghost white lips against his own. 

Demos smiles to himself, whispering a question under his breath, “How long?” 

Ferris shrugs, slowly and deliberately, breathing in the cold dawn air as he casts his eyes to meet Demos’ 

“Not long. Since I came back, probably” 

Demos laughs bashfully, ducking his head so that their temples meet. Close enough to feel Demos’ breath on his face, Ferris doesn’t close his eyes, too embarrassed by the proximity and his racing pulse he knows Demos can feel to back down. 

Demos raises a hand, gently gripping the fabric of Ferris’ shirt over his heart. 

“That’s pretty gay” he whispers on his lips 

“Speak for yourself” Ferris says on a sigh. 

“Vaffanculo” 

Demos kisses him again before he can even realise, his other bony hand coming up to card it’s way through his hair, angling Ferris’ mouth up to press gently against each other’s. It’s not as desperate as before, slow and cautious, Demos’ lips parting for Ferris in small gasps with every graze. Ferris feels Demos’ tongue, hot and wet and stale as before, pressing against his lips, and finds he doesn’t even care anymore as he opens to deepen the kiss, hands coming up to cup Demos jaw, pulling his body flush against him as they tip back on the bed. 

It’s intoxicating, like there’s not enough air in his room to fill Ferris’ lungs, Demos’ arms draping over his shoulders and bare chest rucking up the seam of Ferris’ shirt. Demos’ mouth ventures down his neck, and the moan that escapes him when Demos bites down is the most mortifying sound Ferris thinks he’s ever made. 

“How long?” Ferris grits out through his embarrassment 

Demos breaks away, eyes hazy as he tries to focus on Ferris’ question. His mouth is swollen, face red, and breathe a little ragged, as he drags his gaze up to meet Ferris’. 

“Too long. Since you left, probably” 

6 weeks of panic, shame, and self-loathing flash before Ferris’ mind, of brushed shoulders and wistful gazes. It stabs into him like a blunt plastic fork, the hot humiliation of not noticing and being too dense to even try. 

It must show on his face, because no sooner is Demos back against his lips, chapped mouth working his open with disparate kisses. 

“I’m pathetic” 

“Yeah” Demos mouth at his jaw 

“A loser” 

He kisses his neck “Yeah” 

“A complete idiot” 

“Yeah” Demos’ teeth bite down tenderly on his collar 

“Stop agreeing with me” Ferris barks 

“Hey you said I taste awful, so I’m just calling it even” Demos mouths into his skin. 

The bells on Harkness Tower toll somewhere far off in the distance, stifled quietly against the fog and the morning. It wakes something tired and dreaming inside of Ferris, something he’d tried to forget all through last night. 

He sits up with a start, shaking Demos off to stare out at the window into the courtyard. The peach morning light makes the buildings glow sanguine. Any minute now his peers would be waking up, heading to the dining hall, a full day of exams to commit to. 

Ferris is suddenly reminded of how little sleep he’s had, wondering when time started meaning something to him again. 

“What is it?” Demos hums with annoyance into his shoulder 

Ferris frowns out the window. 

“I have a French exam” He says shortly 

“Oh” 

He turns his head, his gaze meeting Demos’ hard eyes, and for the first time in three long years his heart doesn’t break. It’s nice, different, strangely uncomfortable, but Ferris figures he’ll get used to it. 

__

> _An emotion: reciprocation_

He clasps his hands around Demos’ shoulders, bringing their mouths together in a hard kiss. When he breaks away he clambers off the bed, bare feet freezing on the wooden floor. He moves to his desk. 

“I’m not leaving you” He says frenziedly as he collects his books, stuffing them into a bag along with his pencils and timetable. 

From his position on the bed Demos shoots him an incredulous look, eyebrow quirked in disbelief. “Could have fooled me” he drones. 

“I’m just going to the library,” Ferris scowls, slipping his feet into his shoes, “I have like, two hours to study for this, Demos” 

“Yeah, and I have like, three years of making out and blowjobs to make up for with _you,_ ” He lazily replies, “And you don’t see me rushing around” 

Ferris looks over, the sunrise basking Demos’ silhouette in a halo of golden light. He’s scowling at him, his favourite expression, the hard line of his brow meeting his black eye at an intersection. 

Demos’ words tug a smile onto Ferris’ lips, make his heart trip and fall over itself like a toddler in a playground. 

“There’ll be time for that later though, right?” he hears himself ask, not sure if anything really exists outside of this room, outside this moment. 

Demos stares him down, and Ferris watches his face crack into a wry smile. 

“Yeah, plenty of time” 

__

> _The solution to the current problem: Being Demos Giorgetti’s boyfriend feels a lot like a promise_

“You smell rotten, by the way” Demos flops back dramatically, arm raised over his forehead, “Take a shower” 

Ferris grins down as he ties off a bow on his shoelace. “Thanks for the tip” 

He swings his bag over his shoulder, taking one last look at Demos’ body lying battered and bruised, draped across his bed sheets. He tries to stifle out the possessive happiness drumming in his ribcage, his fingers twitching at the still air. 

__

> _Three years of blowjobs is a very long time_

Demos groans, “ _Staring_ ” 

“Bye” Ferris barks 

He grabs the door handle, yanking it open and striding out into the hallway. 

But just as he’s about to close it, he ducks his head back inside. 

“Demos” he calls. 

A pained moan come in reply, Demos skeletal glare meeting his eyes “What?” 

“Don’t do anything illegal while I’m gone” Ferris warns 

Demos barks a laugh 

“You know me, Ferris,” He says, lying back on the bed, chinned tipped towards the ceiling. 

“Morals don’t occur to me in much the same way that the act of falling does not occurs to birds” 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you made it congratulations
> 
> There are so many things I hate about this chapter  
> about this fic  
> but I don't care  
> just get it away from me
> 
> Epilogue:  
> Ferris only barely passes his French Exam  
> Hiro spent the night in a science department broom closet, and continues doing so for many weeks  
> Adrian was checked into a clinic overnight for a broken nose and moderate blood loss  
> Amy swears to never drink again  
> Demos finally gives Ferris a blowjob after 3 offical dates
> 
> thank you for reading <3


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